


Fire and Death

by blue3ski



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anya is Fenix, Dmitry is Johnny Mundo/Angelico, F/M, Gleb is Mil Muertes, Lucha Underground AU, Vlad is Konnan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-02-19 00:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13112355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue3ski/pseuds/blue3ski
Summary: He is the instrument of Death. She will rise from the ashes.Neither can allow the other to win.When supernatural lucha libre mythology collides with Anastasia the Musical (with influences from the 1997 movie)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know lucha libre and Russia aren't two worlds that go together very well but this is an Anastasia AU :D

_It began with General Vaganov’s plan to bring down the Romanovs, the greatest lucha libre family in Russia. They had ruled the renowned fighting Palace in St Petersburg for 300 years, regularly inviting the best warriors from among lucha libre royalty to battle for glory, honor, and superiority. Desiring to seize power, General Vaganov struck a deal with the old gods, promising that if they granted him the ability and the opportunity to take the throne, he would find worthy vessels for them to inhibit from among the top fighters in the country._

_Pleased with the offer, the gods agreed, and not long after, General Vaganov and his cohorts were able to ambush and kill the Romanovs. The family matriarch Maria Feodorovna, known in her heyday as the queen of lucha libre, escaped the massacre by being on tour in Paris at the time. Most of the royals went into hiding, afraid for their own lives._

_Upon taking over, General Vaganov proceeded to open up the Palace to the public, promising that all could fight in it regardless of class and social standing because all fighters were now equal under the new regime, regardless of whether they came from a royal bloodline or not. In fact, he declared, any royals discovered in the Palace would most assuredly meet their end there._

_The gods did not take long to demand their payment for orchestrating the successful coup. The first god to make a selection was Death herself, and she chose the general’s own son, Gleb, who was only seventeen at the time. General Vaganov died only a short time later, and Death came down to rule the Palace next, wielding her new instrument._

_Gleb was granted unnatural strength and endurance, and he soared through the ranks of the fighters, undefeated since his entry. He was given authority over the Palace as Death’s own right-hand man, and he became known as the Man of a Thousand Deaths._

_Ten years on, however, rumors started to swirl that the Romanovs had not been entirely wiped out. That there was one survivor – the youngest daughter Anastasia. Whose very name designated her as one who could wear the Phoenix mask that was her family’s legacy and best Death._

_But those were nothing but rumors…_

* * *

 

Gleb walks down the streets of the recently-renamed Leningrad, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. He’s cold, as he always is. Has been since the night he was given up to Death ten years ago.

The crowd that has gathered to gossip in the square quickly disperses at the sight of the man in the Death mask. As he passes by, he can see the fear in their eyes, and he takes grim satisfaction in it.

It is good for them to know fear. Especially the fear of death.

The Palace looms in the distance. Once a grand structure that came to life especially at night, it is now dark and its exterior in disrepair – imposing, frightening to all who come near. His dark mistress wants it that way – she says it is how she weeds out the weaklings at the door.

He doesn’t question her. He never does.

He slows down as he gets close to the entrance, seeing the group of fighters huddled against the winds of the Russian winter. A few more steps, and they will see him. He’s not in the mood to be stared at some more, so he stops to wait until they’ve gone in.

Not far away, a young woman with red-gold hair is sweeping the street. She wears a long, shabby coat, and her head is bowed. Normally, Gleb doesn’t notice specific people unless they’re fighting him – otherwise, their faces blur into everyone else’s. But he finds himself straining to get a better look as his skin prickles in some strange call.

As he edges forward, his boot lands on an errant tree branch, snapping it into the snow with a loud, wet crunch.

“Oh!” the girl cries out, falling back and dropping her broom. She looks around her, visibly terrified.

Gleb generally doesn’t care. But something compels him to step forward, to offer aid. He kneels to be at eye level with her and extends a hand.

“It was a tree branch, comrade,” he explains. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

She regards him with wide blue eyes for a few seconds, and he sees himself reflected in them. A hulking figure, everything but his eyes and mouth hidden behind a black mask. A reminder that yes, she does have something to fear.

He begins to pull his hand back, but before he does, she has taken it.

Heat rushes through his veins, and his insides feel as though they are burning. He wants to let go, but he also can’t.

He feels so very alive.

He doesn’t even realize that they’re both on their feet already – his head is swimming from the rush. But she lets go of his hand, and the warmth vanishes just as quickly as it came. He feels even colder than he was before.

She’s trembling as well as she takes her broom, and he reaches out to steady her, noting for the first time that she is beautiful. Before he knows it, he has blurted out an invitation to tea to warm her up. To warm them both, if he can stay in her vicinity for just a little while longer.

A dim part of him insists that he needs to be back in the Palace, but the part of him that last lived at seventeen surges to the surface, giddy with a schoolboy’s excitement, and insists that a few minutes won’t matter. The fighting doesn’t start until the sun has set.

But she jerks away when he touches her arm through her coat and scurries off, stammering out a thank you.

“What’s your hurry?” he asks, trying to mask his disappointment as the warmth fades from his fingertips.

“I can’t lose this job. They’re not easy to come by.” She hesitates and softens a little, turning back to look at him. “But thank you.”

No one understands duty better than Gleb does, so he doesn’t argue further. But perhaps when it’s a better time…

“I’m here every day!” he calls out to her departing figure.

He only hopes she is.

* * *

 

Anya stares down at her hand, wondering.

She is rarely cold, even in the winter. She’s always had a high body temperature – it has taken her through ten years of living on the streets with nothing to her name.

In fact, not even a name. She’s only Anya because some nurses decided she would be. It’s as if she was just unceremoniously dumped into the world at seventeen.

The only hints she has of her past are flashes of fire, screams, and wet crunching sounds. She’s always been especially reactive to the latter, and it’s caused her a fair share of embarrassment when she has an attack in front of a crowd. And so she’s grateful for the kindness of the fighter who had stopped to help.

The chill she felt upon taking his hand is strange, though. It's as though the heat that always keeps her warm was sucked away by a vacuum.

She circles back around to the Palace. With night falling, she can hear it coming to life inside, and her skin prickles. But she doesn’t know whether she wants to fight or to flee. The Palace always makes her feel that way.

It’s not that she doesn’t know how to fight. Russia has never been a safe place for young women, particularly young women crossing the country alone, and thankfully, she’s always had a propensity for physical combat. Enough to keep her alive and unharmed for most part, until she finds what she’s been looking for.

Identity. Family. Home.

Love.

She dreams of meeting someone – she just doesn’t know who or where to find them. She dreams about narrow, dimly-lit hallways ending in a brightly-lit room. She dreams of a beautiful façade, decorated in gold like a beacon in the dark sky.

She looks up, and the real sky overhead has gone the color of ink. She should go. The later it gets, the more dangerous it is to be hanging around a hall of fighters. Purist spectators and competitors alike don’t take kindly to stragglers.

As she turns her back to the Palace and makes her way back to the Neva River, she wonders if the man in the black mask is fighting tonight. If he is, she wishes him luck.

* * *

 

“Vlad, I’ve been thinking about Anastasia Romanov.”

Vladimir Popov turns away from the action in the Palace’s ring to look at his protégé with exasperation. “Not you too, Dmitry.”

The young man grins at him, a calculating glint in his eye.

It has been ten years since the event that had shattered Vlad’s carefully constructed identity as lucha libre royalty. He’d had enough skill to pass himself off as one, and he had been living the good life until the Romanovs were murdered by their own general. He’d had to flee as General Vaganov initiated a bloodthirsty campaign against the royals – whispers said anyone he caught was sacrificed to the old gods. Only quick thinking and the street-smart Dmitry’s timely interference had saved Vlad from this purging.

In return, Vlad had decided to apply his knowledge to training Dmitry in proper lucha libre combat. The boy had grown up in the streets, orphaned when the Palace had claimed his father many years ago. Getting into the fighting arena – and bringing it down – was part of a revenge plot to spit in the face of the authority who had allowed that to happen. With Dmitry now close to being ready, they had started covertly attending Palace fights to scope out the competition and perhaps get an in.

Unfortunately, training and basic necessities do not come cheap, and they’ve been running low on funds.

“Her grandmother is willing to pay anyone who can bring Anastasia back,” Dmitry whispers urgently. “Imagine if we’re the ones who do.”

“Nice plan. Except for the part where _there is no Anastasia_ ,” Vlad points out.

“We’ll find a girl who can play the part,” Dmitry continues as raucous cheers surround them with the conclusion of a fight. “You can teach her what to say, how to fight like a Romanov.”

His mind whirs with a new idea. “Then we take her to the Palace, and you enter us together. The queen is sure to notice her on that stage, and I get to exact my vengeance.”

Vlad looks at Dmitry, pensive. His student’s eyes blaze with confidence and purpose – Dmitry knows what he wants to do, and he knows he’s damn good at it. It’s why he’s a quick learner, and why he will become a star in the Palace in due time. But it also makes Vlad afraid sometimes. He’s seen the best warriors in the country fight, and he never wants Dmitry to underestimate them.

Especially the Man of a Thousand Deaths.

Gleb Vaganov comes out for the last bout of the night, and the atmosphere perceptibly changes. The cheers and jeers seem to shrivel up and die before the Palace’s champion. The few hushed murmurs voice their early condolences for his poor, hapless opponent, and Dmitry leans forward with interest to study the match.  

Not that there’s much to watch. The other man barely puts up a fight, and one Flatliner later, Dmitry sighs in disappointment as he falls back against the back of his seat.

“They need me in there,” he sighs. “Someone needs to give him a challenge.”

They file out the dingy door with the rest of the spectators, their chatter breaking the eerie silence. It’s past midnight, and most of Russia is in slumber.

Dmitry and Vlad head in the direction of home, currently the old, abandoned estate of Count Yusupov. As they pass a side street near the Neva, they hear the sounds of a scuffle. Exchanging concerned looks, they hurry over to see what’s happening.

A young woman with gold hair is being accosted by two men in masks. To Vlad’s surprise, she doesn’t look frightened – her eyes are narrowed in concentration as she drops the broom she’s holding and throws a punch at one of her attackers. It connects solidly, and he staggers backward, clearly thrown off guard. The other charges, and she grabs his arm, twisting it as she delivers a kick to the back of his knees.

His companion is getting to his feet, however, and he does not seem pleased now. Dmitry jumps into the fray, grasping the masked man by the back of his shirt before he gets any ideas. He sends him crashing to the ground with a massive yank.

The girl gives no visible indication that she has noticed Dmitry or Vlad, but Vlad sees her relax slightly now that she has backup. She chops her attacker hard in the chest, making him double over. As Dmitry’s opponent stands, Dmitry leaps up and deals a vicious spinning kick to his face, felling him.

The attackers start backing away, realizing they’re outmatched, and bolt. Vlad bends and picks up her fallen broom.

“Are you hurt?” Vlad asks the girl as he hands it to her.

She shakes her head and takes the broom. “Thank you,” she says. She turns to Dmitry. “That was gentlemanly of you.”

Dmitry is staring at her with an odd expression on his face, his brow furrowed like he’s watching Vlad demonstrate a complicated move.

“Are you a fighter?” Dmitry blurts out. Vlad blinks – he can’t mean –

“Not really, but I’ll be fine. I can defend myself for most part,” she replies. “Again, thank you.” She starts to move past Vlad.

Dmitry gestures wildly at her. He does mean that.

To be fair, this girl would be easy to train…she has got basic skills already. And Vlad could start over. Live the good life once more once Maria Feodorovna pays up.

He puts a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Would you like to be one?”

She stops and turns. “What?”

“I’m Vladimir Popov. This is Dmitry. We’re looking for the lost princess of Russian lucha libre, Anastasia Romanov,” he explains.

Dmitry chimes in. “You fight an awful lot like her.”

She snorts. “That’s very kind of you, but I think you’ve got the wrong girl.”

“I’ve seen many female fighters, and not one of them fights like her the way you do,” Vlad remarks. “No one spots lucha libre royalty like Vlad Popov!”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been living on the streets since I can remember. I don’t have any family – let alone family that's lucha libre royalty. Heaven knows I’ve been looking for the past ten years.”

Dmitry frowns as he gives her a good look. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven, but I don’t see how that’s relevant –”

“You’ve been looking for your family since you were seventeen?” Vlad’s senses are beginning to tingle.

“That’s when they found me.” She fiddles with the handle of her broom. “They said I was lying there on the side of a road, like I’d been beaten up.”

Dmitry’s eyebrows shoot up and he meets Vlad’s eyes.

“Why were you beaten up, child?” Vlad ventures.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember anything before that.”

Jackpot.

“We’re heading for the Palace,” he continues smoothly as Dmitry comes up to stand beside him. “The biggest stage in all Russia. If anyone wants to be found…it’s there that they can be found.”

He extends his hand. “Come with us.”


	2. Chapter 2

“No,” Anya replies, annoyed.

Honestly, do they think she was born yesterday? She’s grateful for their help, but she’s not going to go wandering off with strange men just because they said nice things to her.

She shrugs the older man’s – Vladimir’s – hand from her shoulder and stalks off. At least she starts to.

“Could you live with knowing you never even tried?” asks the other one – Dmitry. She stops short, despite herself.

“’Cause I’m pretty sure I couldn’t. But that’s me,” he continues casually. “No pressure. You do you. We’re going to the Palace anyway, with or without you. Who knows, we might find the real Anastasia along the way and we'll get to reunite her with her grandmother.”

Anya tightens her grip on her broom.

Dmitry saunters past and claps Vladimir on the shoulder. “Come on, Vlad, let’s go. She’s not interested, and we’ve got a long day ahead.” He nods to her. “Best of the luck on the streets, kid.”

Vlad follows. He looks confused, but he seems to trust his friend. “Stay safe, comrade –?”

“Anya,” she supplies hesitantly.

Vlad nods. “Stay safe, Anya.”

As he hurries to catch up to Dmitry, Anya looks down at the broom in her hands.

She has worked everywhere she can possibly work to survive. She has walked halfway across the country to try to get to…somewhere she can find and be found. And she hasn’t had anything to show for all those years. She’s still hidden in the crush of people that make up Russia.

Will she end up dying like this, sweeping streets and washing dishes for the rest of her life?

The Palace is the most well-known arena in the country. Everyone knows it – royal or revolutionary, resident or visitor. It means something, even though she doesn’t know what it is.

Does she really have anything left to lose?

“Wait!” she calls to the men’s backs.

“Yeah?” Dmitry calls back without turning around. He continues whispering furiously to Vlad.

“Do you honestly think I could be Anastasia?” she asks. She bites her lip, trying not to sound too…hopeful.

Vlad turns and smiles kindly. “I train fighters, Anya. I lived and fought with the royalty – please don’t repeat that part to anyone, by the way. When I was watching you earlier, I saw a native skill in you that I’ve seen only in them. With a little seasoning, I don’t see why you couldn’t be her.”

“I suppose there’s no reason why I couldn’t, if I don’t remember anything,” Anya concedes. “I’m a girl who’s missing a family, and out there, there’s a grandmother missing a granddaughter. If I’m not her, she’ll know right away, won’t she?”

“And if we’re right and you are Anastasia, then you’ll have your identity and a family back!” Vlad finishes, beaming.

Anya takes a deep breath. “I’m in.” She holds her hand out, and Vlad shakes it.

“Knew you’d see it my way,” Dmitry drawls as he finally turns around.

Anya rolls her eyes as he shakes her hand next. “I didn’t see it your way – I saw it mine.”

“Whatever you say.” He’s practically preening.

The three of them fall into step. “This training,” Anya ventures. “How much –”

Vlad waves her off. “Dmitry has never paid me a ruble so I don’t see why you should.”

“Hey!” Dmitry protests.

At least it’s not a money scam. She doesn’t have much to spare on a lie.

“We’re heading to the old Yusupov estate,” Vlad continues. “Yourself, Anya?”

She swallows and looks away. “The river.”

“Oh, where do you stay?”

“Under the bridge.” Her cheeks flush.

The smirk on Dmitry’s face vanishes, and he and Vlad exchange concerned looks.

“In this weather?” Dmitry inquires quietly.

“We have room,” Vlad offers. “And one more bag of lentils. You should stay with us.”

“We’re training there anyway,” Dmitry adds. “Might as well make it easy on yourself.”

Anya considers. A proper roof over her head is a rare thing to find in St Petersburg. And she’s learned to sleep with one eye open, if they think of trying anything.

“Alright,” she agrees. “Thank you.”

When they enter the abandoned property, Anya looks around and exhales in relief. It’s a little rundown, but is very clearly a training facility. There’s an old, but reasonably clean ring dominating the center of the room, and workout equipment is scattered on the floor. Vlad orders Dmitry to put them away while he goes off to find a bag of lentils for her to sleep on for the night. Dmitry grumbles as he scurries around replacing the equipment properly.

“Here we go!” Vlad gasps out, huffing and puffing as he drags a heavy sack behind him. He drops it in front of Dmitry and doubles over, trying to steady his breathing.

“I’m fine,” he wheezes when Anya makes a move to check on him, concerned.

“He’s fine,” Dmitry echoes as he moves the sack into place with little effort. “You’re all set up, kid. Sleep tight.”

He pulls Vlad to his feet. “We’ll be in the next room if you need anything.”

Anya nods and watches them go. Once she’s alone, she walks over to the ring and runs a hand over the rough surface of the mat. Something nags at her, something she feels she should know, something she yearns to remember...

Glancing around to make sure Vlad and Dmitry aren’t around, she steps in between the ropes and into the ring.

The air suddenly feels charged, and the hair on her arms stand on end. She looks up, and she can see silhouettes leaping from the top turnbuckles, hear the phantom sounds of bodies hitting the mat.

“Could it be?” she whispers to herself. Her question bounces off the walls.

She stands there for a few more seconds, then rolls back out onto the floor in a motion that feels absolutely natural. She lies down on the bag of lentils, marvelling at how things have suddenly changed all in one night.

Her makeshift bed is surprisingly comfortable – she supposes anything feels like heaven after months of sleeping on cold, hard ground. Despite her excitement, it’s not long before her eyelids grow heavy and she fades into dreams of masks and fire.

* * *

 

The back of the Palace is dark and silent as a tomb. The audience is long gone, and the fighters have gone home.

Gleb has the prone body of that night’s opponent over his shoulder. The thump of his boots on the floor is the only sound in the entire arena – not even the wind dares whistle where Death reigns.

He vaguely wonders what his opponent – his victim – looks like. Gleb hasn’t seen his own face in ten years. A fighter’s mask represents his identity - his very head. And Gleb’s mistress never wants him to forget that he is the face of death, nothing more. So when his mask is off, mirrors are not his friend.

He stops outside his mistress’s office door. The interior is dim, and he can hear nothing, which means she has not yet returned. Gleb shifts the weight on his shoulder, and continues on to his own quarters inside the Palace to wait until she calls for him.

Gleb dumps his opponent on the floor, checking to make sure he remains unconscious. Satisfied, he picks up a box of matches from the table nearby and strikes one to light a candle. He moves to shake the flame out as it spreads down the matchstick, but he finds himself mesmerized by the flickering fire.

It reminds him of the heat he felt today.

He watches as the flame turns the wood to black ash. But as soon as it touches his skin, it splutters and dies.

He didn’t even feel a thing. He closes his eyes as the face of the woman he met on the street that afternoon swims to the forefront of his mind. He wonders how different their meeting might have gone if she could see his face. He remembers the feel of her hand in his - he can’t recall the warmth anymore, but he does the gentleness. It’s a new, but not unpleasant experience.

“Gleb,” the deep voice of his mistress intones, tearing into Gleb's musings. Quickly, he blows the candle out and hoists his victim back onto his shoulder.

As he approaches the office, he can see the windows emitting a red glow. He knocks twice, then slowly pushes the old wooden door open.

Red candles line the walls of the room, washing it in flickering yellow light. They look like earthly ones do, but candles from the underworld are different. They give off no heat, and will never burn down, arrested in time like the one who lit them.

His mistress sits behind the desk, boots up on the surface. Her face is at first hidden in shadow, but when she looks up and trains her gaze on him, her eyes are almond-shaped discs of glittering pure black, deep and soulless.

“Where is he?” she demands.

Gleb drops the body onto the table and steps back. His opponent is only just beginning to stir, and when he looks up, Gleb's mistress reaches out and removes the man's mask to expose his true face. On instinct, he moves to cover it, but she catches his wrists, smiling.

The fighter never has a chance to fully recover. Death swoops down and clamps her mouth over his. He quivers as the life is sucked from him in pulses of electricity – first violently, and then feebly until he no longer moves. Until he’s nothing but bones.

Gleb watches, impassive.

She withdraws, her eyes now glowing yellow, and tugs at the skull until it comes free from the spine. She kicks the rest of the skeleton aside, and returns to her chair.

“Throne” would probably be the more accurate term, however. The chair is massive – lined by the skulls of Gleb’s many victims over the past ten years. She wedges the new skull into a gap along the sides of the chair, inspecting her handiwork to make sure the new piece of decoration has fitted perfectly.

She sits back down, as though nothing has happened. Her attention focuses completely on Gleb now, and he can feel her stare piercing him to the core. He fidgets a little, hoping she can’t detect any hint of fire on him.

“Something is different,” she pronounces.

He doesn’t dare move. Does he smell of smoke? Does he burn, to her? He’s never asked, but he doesn’t find it likely that Death will approve of life.

“I heard whispers,” she continues. “Beats. Pulses. They say life is returning to the Palace.”

He stays quiet, trying to shove the memory of the street sweeper from his mind. He’s not unconvinced that Death can’t read his thoughts.

“ _Life._ ” She bites out the word with loathing as she taps her fingers on the skulls decorating the arm of the chair. “Ridiculous. I stamped that out years ago.” She glances at him. “Your father made sure of that.”

Gleb fights to remain unmoved. He can still hear the breaking of bones in his ears…the screams that faded into silence.

_That night, his father told him to stay home with his mother. But overly curious, Gleb snuck out._

_His father had talked a long time of revolution, of returning to the common man control of the one fighting promotion in Russia. It was unfair, his father often said, that one family alone made the decisions on who was worthy to perform, on who was considered the best in the nation. He turned his nose up at the notion of lucha libre talent being in one’s blood – anyone could learn to fight if the need called for it, and show a propensity for the sport. All were equal within that ring._

_Gleb, his father proudly pronounced, was the living example of that. And Gleb was proud to be._

_And so he watched as his father led the Romanovs into the rundown warehouse across the street that had been converted into a practice arena for the Romanovs’ underlings. The last person to enter was a teenage girl with red-gold hair, her head held high._

_He ran over, wondering why his father was bringing the Romanovs here. And how he had gotten them to leave their nice, shiny Palace._

_Gleb knew the warehouse well, having often gone there from his childhood. At first, it had been his playground, and then it became his training ground. He found the spot in the wall where a hole had been carved out by him specifically for the purpose of eavesdropping, and he pressed his eye against it._

_His father’s friends were waiting inside, and Gleb’s stomach twisted. He wasn’t entirely certain what was about to take place, but based on what he had overheard his father say before about what the fate of the Romanovs would be should he find his opportunity, Gleb could only imagine that it would not be pleasant._

_A female figure stood among them, all in black, her face concealed by a curtain of black hair._

_Gleb heard his father’s voice, mixed with that of the Romanov patriarch’s. The murmurs of the women and the children buzzed in the background, incomprehensible but clearly frightened._

_Gleb began to turn away, but the woman in black looked up and stared him full in the face. Gleb backed up quickly, barely able to stop himself from crying out at the sight of the pure black orbs she had for eyes._

_She smiled._

_Gleb wanted to escape, to go back home where he should be and pretend he had seen nothing. But it was as if he had been rooted where he stood, making him powerless to run when the beating began. He could only clamp his hands over his ears and shut his eyes._

_He lost himself that night. When the sounds of death died down, Gleb Vaganov had become a very different boy._

_He made it home just before his father arrived at the door. Hidden in his room, Gleb listened to his mother’s horrified whispers to see her husband covered in blood, listened to the tired pronouncement of victory._

_A few nights later, his father came home, face ashen, and asked Gleb what he would do for the sake of a new Russia. Trembling and still shaken by what he had seen, Gleb had asked what his father wanted of him. His father simply told Gleb to follow him, and he did._

_All the way to a place beyond the grave._

Death watches him with cold eyes. “You are his son. Be proud of what he accomplished.” She stands. “Maria Feodorovna thinks the Phoenix will rise again, does she? Then you will do what your father did and kill her hope. No Romanov will come within a yard of my Palace.”

Gleb nods with conviction. He will do as she says, and protect the integrity of the Palace. In his father's name.

She inclines her head toward the door. “You’re dismissed.”

As Gleb walks out, the wheels in his head are starting to turn. He will listen to the fighters at the door now. He will trace the rumors. And he will stamp out any hint of a Romanov revival.

As the Man of a Thousand Deaths takes over, the memory of the fire fades from Gleb Vaganov’s mind.


	3. Chapter 3

Anya wakes the next morning to the smell of fresh bread. Disoriented, she leaps off the bag she’s been lying on, fists up and eyes flickering around the room warily.

“Good morning!” Vlad sings out from across the room. He grabs a roll and tosses it at her – she just barely catches it before it hits the floor.

“Good reflexes,” he comments approvingly. “Come and have breakfast. Dmitry grabbed these at the market.”

“‘Grabbed’.” Anya raises her eyebrows. Dmitry grins cheekily at her as he stuffs his face, making it very clear what Vlad means by that. She lets the hand holding the bread fall to her side, discomfited.

It’s not that she’s never stolen anything in her life – in this climate, the better question is who _hasn’t_. But the need doesn’t make the act any more palatable. She doesn’t like taking what she hasn’t earned – dishonesty leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

“Are you going to eat that?” Dmitry calls out. Anya looks at the bread and hesitates.

“Don’t give me that look,” he continues, his tone cool but defensive. “If you’re going to train, then you need to eat. And since all of that isn’t cheap, there’s only one solution.”

“You could work for it,” she counters.

He shrugs. “I don’t have time for that. I’m here all day. I have things to do.” He sounds casual, but his eyes are steely.

“Dmitry’s right – if you don’t eat, you’ll be dead on your feet before we even begin.” Vlad takes a bite of his own roll. “We do what we have to do to get by.”

The bread feels warm in her grasp, and Anya’s stomach growls. Finally, she lifts it to her mouth. It tastes like heaven.

They polish off the food, and after, Vlad has Anya sit and watch while Dmitry jumps onto the ring apron, wiping off the soles of his boots on the edge before climbing between the ropes. He looks at home, smirking as he bounces on the balls of his feet, loosening his muscles. As he runs drills, Vlad yells instructions and keeps up a running commentary for Anya, explaining the purpose of each exercise as they go. She tries to follow along with her eyes as much as possible, slightly overwhelmed but also awed.

Anya mainly relies on punches and kicks in a fight – that’s what works on the streets, and she’s very good at that. Simple and straightforward. But Dmitry is taking those basic strikes and adding a fluidity and a flair to them that she’s never seen before. And when Vlad enters the ring to spar with him, they move like lightning – each hit met with a counter like they’re performing a brutal, but artful, dance. A sense of familiarity tugs at her, like she should join in.

“Your turn, Anya,” Vlad announces, his face red with exertion.

She swallows hard, takes a deep breath, and grasps the bottom rope with her fingers. It’s much harder than it looks, like steel wrapped in tape. She boosts herself onto the apron and rolls in under the rope.

Vlad retreats to the corner. “Let me see what you can do.”

Anya launches herself at Dmitry, unleashing a flurry of punches and kicks. She’s always thought she was a fast mover, but he easily matches her speed, blocking each strike with little effort. A counter sends her into the ropes, and she gasps when her back bounces off painfully, sending her to the mat. She winces as she puts a hand to her skin, wondering if she’s been cut.

Vlad nods. “You’ll need to get used to that.”

She gets to her feet, relieved that she’s not hurt. But Dmitry seems to have taken Vlad’s comment to mean that that particular lesson needs to happen now, and he immediately begins shooting her into the ropes at each turn. By the time Vlad calls them both to take a break, her back is screaming in pain, and she practically crashes face-first into her bag of lentils in relief. It’s too soon when he declares that it’s time to get up and carry on.

The glow of the setting sun is spilling through the high windows when Vlad finally deems training to be done for the day. Anya has never felt so exhausted, and she slumps in the corner of the ring.

Vlad comes up to her with a cup of water. “Have you ever applied a submission maneuver?” he asks. Mutely, she shakes her head.

“Knew it,” Dmitry remarks as he douses his head with water before shaking it off like a dog.

“We’ll work on that next,” Vlad notes. Anya nods, not having energy left to form words.

It’s a lot to take in, and Anya feels like she’s drowning as the next few days slip by. Vlad hurls technique after technique at her, and has Dmitry slap submission hold after submission hold on her. She can’t keep up – her limbs don’t seem to want to cooperate. For all their talk about her having "native skill," that certainly doesn't seem to be the case now.

During one session, she lands wrong on the mat, and the pain in her knee tells her she's done.

“I’ve had it,” she blurts out, close to tears as she clutches her leg. Dmitry stops, frowning, and leans down to take a look.

"It's not serious," he reports. "Overstretched it a little -"

"I'm only human!" she protests, her vision going blurry. "I can't do this - I'm sorry -"

Vlad comes over. "Anya, darling. Take a breath." He places a hand on her shoulder as she inhales and exhales. "This happens to the best of us. We were all frightened when we started out - myself, Dmitry, even your own family, I would be willing to bet."

She sniffles.

"You have courage and strength you barely know - I still see the potential in you. So blow that little nose and dry those pretty eyes - you are lucha libre royalty. You can do this if you try," Vlad reiterates.

His bold speech is heartening, and despite her frustration, she finds herself swiping a hand across her eyes and drying her tears as instructed.

After the rough first few weeks, Anya finally finds herself settling into a groove. The training begins to show its effects – she moves more easily now than she ever has before, and she doesn’t even notice the ropes anymore. Her ground game has improved immensely – the men have had her learn every grappling technique they know, and Anya is surprised to find that beyond the initial struggle, she picks up the logic of each lesson quickly enough.

“She’s a natural!” Vlad proudly declares after she successfully makes Dmitry tap out for the first time. Dmitry snarls a little at that as he stretches his bent arm out, but he also looks grudgingly impressed.

“Top rope tomorrow,” Vlad announces, looking giddy, as he bids them good night. Excited and wary at the same time, Anya barely sleeps.

The Romanovs were known for their high-flying feats. “That’s why the family mask is a phoenix,” Vlad explains the following morning while Dmitry demonstrates several flips and flying leaps. “To truly be one of them, you must be as comfortable up there as you would be on the ground.”

At Vlad’s behest, she heads to the corner. She places one foot on the first rope and begins to climb slowly. He told her to stop at the middle rope - they'll start there until she gets comfortable with her footing and the height. But something stirring in Anya’s blood compels her to continue until she has reached the top.

Her heart pounds as she looks down from her perch, realizing just how high up she is. The floor is dizzyingly far down, and her knees feel shaky. She turns around so she can sit down on the turnbuckle, needing to right herself. Dmitry and Vlad stare up at her, their faces creased with concern, and Dmitry takes a step forward, as though preparing to catch her if she falls.

A few minutes of deep breaths later, Anya stands up on the ropes again. This is the most unsafe she has ever been – yet, the fear is now mixed with threads of a daredevil thrill.

“What do you want me to do?” she calls down.

Vlad looks like he’s having a coronary. “Anya, I said the _second_ rope!”

“I’m fine!” she replies, the daring now taking hold. She grins cheekily down at them, and without being prompted, she throws herself off. Instinctively, she curls her body into a flip, stumbling only a little as she lands for most part on her feet.

Vlad and Dmitry are staring at her, mouths agape.

“I don’t believe I taught you that,” Vlad mumbles in awe.

She shrugs. “It was easy.”

The two men exchange a meaningful look. Dmitry is the first to recover, a glimmer in his eye as he clears his throat. “Easy, huh? Then let me show you what a real landing looks like, _princess._ ”

* * *

 

Gleb narrows his eyes from behind his mask as he studies the man sitting on the other side of the desk.

“You say you have new fighters for the Palace,” he repeats.

The man, who had introduced himself as Vladimir, a manager and trainer, swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against his throat. He squirms a little in his seat and nods.

“Any requests to fight here, I take very seriously. What makes you think they belong in my arena?” Gleb inquires coolly, leaning back against his – Death’s – chair.

“The Palace looks for the best fighters in the world, doesn’t it?” Vladimir responds. He sits up straighter. “Wait until you see who I’m bringing in. Two of the best Russia has to offer. And they come from the streets, right here in Leningrad.”

Gleb is intrigued despite himself. Hidden in the shadows, he knows Death is listening.

“Who are they?” he asks, feigning disinterest. He won’t let this Vladimir know he’s interested…yet.

“Dmitry and Anya. They fight unmasked, although they certainly could if you’d rather that they do.”

_Anya._ The name strikes a chord deep inside Gleb, and he can feel it vibrating through his insides. It takes unexpected effort to will himself into waving dismissively.

“Masks won’t be necessary. They’re a team, then,” he remarks. “Are they ready to fight tonight?”

Vladimir’s eyes widen briefly in surprise, but he composes himself admirably quickly. “They’re always ready,” he answers confidently.

“Good.” Gleb steeples his fingers under his chin, smiling coldly. “I presume you and your fighters understand the risks of entering the Palace. There are no guarantees they will leave in one piece at the end of the night. Or alive.”

Vladimir takes a deep breath. “We do.”

“Then I’ll see you later.” Gleb inclines his head at the office door. Vladimir gets the hint, and immediately rises from his chair. He scurries to the door and makes himself scarce.

“New blood,” Death murmurs. “Watch them carefully.”

She hands him a slip of paper – her choice of opponents for Vladimir’s fighters. Gleb waits, but that seems to be all she’s willing to say. He nods and steps out, leaving his mistress to her dark thoughts as he goes to set the rest of the night’s fights. As the sun sets, he takes his usual seat at the very head of the Palace, waiting for the evening's activity to begin.

The new fighters are scheduled for the opening bout. Their opponents enter first, and as they warm up in the ring, Gleb catches a glimpse of a cheap blue suit – Vladimir. He steps into view, followed by a tall, lanky young man who looks far too supremely confident for someone about to get into his inaugural Palace fight. Presumably, this is Dmitry. Gleb already doesn't like him.

Dmitry's partner, Anya, is at his heels, and Gleb sucks in the breath he wasn't aware he could take.

She burns like the sun, making his cold skin prickle. And all of a sudden, the memory comes rushing back - the girl frightened out of her wits by a breaking tree branch. The rush of fire as he held her hand.

When he exhales, it's shaky, and he’s never been more relieved that he wears a mask.

The fight has already started by the time Gleb dares to look in the ring again. Dmitry is in, grappling, but Gleb keeps getting drawn back to Anya, standing in the corner as she looks on, focused. He can feel the power coiling inside her, causing the air around her to crackle as she awaits her turn.

An errant kick breaks Dmitry's momentum, and he’s getting the boots put to him. Anya is reaching out to him, and Gleb finds himself sitting up straight and leaning forward. Half of him wants her to get in there – wants to see what business this street sweeper has coming into his arena – and half of him wants to take her away from this place, back to the safety of the streets.

Dmitry’s fingertips touch hers, just enough to make the tag, and she steps inside. Her opponent’s serious expression relaxes into a sneer, noting that he’s facing a woman now. But the sneer doesn’t stay on for very long as Anya proceeds to send him staggering with a forearm across the bridge of the nose.

Gleb swears he can smell smoke every time she moves.

There’s something strikingly familiar about her fighting style. She hits hard, but flies like she’s lighter than air. Moves that should have put her down don’t, and daredevil leaps that should have been disastrous aren’t. It both intrigues and rattles him, that she seemingly can’t _die._

It’s reminiscent, he realizes, of how the Romanovs used to fight. And from the murmurs around him, some in the crowd are also picking up on it.

She and Dmitry pick up the victory in short order, and as her hand is raised, she looks up in Gleb’s direction. Her eyes widen slightly, perhaps in recognition of the mask he wears. Their eyes meet for a long moment, and Gleb can’t hear anything anymore.

Dmitry tugs on her hand, turning her attention back to him, and Gleb wants to clobber the boy. Anya looks back at Gleb one more time, then leaves the ring with her cohorts to the sound of impressed cheering from the crowd. Gleb watches until she and her fire are gone, turning his insides back to ice.

He waits impatiently for the night’s show to end – he wants to go find her in the back, if she’s still there. But she’s gone by the time he gets there. Part of the wall splinters under his fist as he exhales in frustration.  

The fighters remaining in the changing areas scatter as he approaches – they likely feel the cold anger radiating from him and know better than to be in his way now. He almost reaches his quarters with no resistance or obstacle, until he senses her and the fury is sucked from him, replaced with dread.

He had very nearly forgotten who else was watching.

Once they are ensconced in the safety of her office, his dark mistress is more uncertain than he’s ever seen her. “The Phoenix,” she mutters, her voice a mixture of anger and what sounds like trepidation.

“Is she?” Gleb ventures. He has never questioned his mistress before, but –

Death’s pitch-black eyes lock on him, and he shrinks back. “It doesn’t matter if she is or isn’t,” she snaps imperiously. “The legend cannot be allowed to rise.”

She reaches out and pats the side of his mask with a hand, and he turns away, not wanting her to see his hesitation.

“I gave you a thousand deaths. Use every single one of them if you must. Finish her.”


	4. Chapter 4

The door closes, and Maria Feodorovna Romanov looks up, eyes narrowing.

“It’s me, Your Majesty,” her lady-in-waiting calls.

Maria relaxes a hair as Lily Malevsky-Malevitch steps into view, removing her fur coat. “Well?”

“The gods don’t seem to be moving yet,” Lily reports. “The Palace is running as it always has. And…the general’s son is the strongest he’s ever been.” There’s a note of worry in her voice.

Maria ignores it, frowning as she ponders the rest of the statement. “Is it possible that the rumor hasn’t reached them?”

Lily takes a seat across from her. “I would doubt it. Everyone has been talking about it for months, all across Russia. No one, god or mortal, could have missed it if they tried.”

Maria stares into the fire flickering in the hearth nearby. “Then we wait.” Waiting. The only thing she has been doing for ten years.

Ten years so she can strike back against all those who took everything from her.

Maria can still remember the last time she saw her son and her grandchildren. She had told him to take care of himself, his household, and the Palace until she returned in two months. He had squeezed her hand, smiled, and told her not to worry – he was a grown man now. Maria had said her last goodbye to Anastasia after – promising her that one day, she would be by her grandmother’s side in a ring – as long as she kept up her training. Anastasia had smiled, sighed, and vowed that she would, not that Maria believed her.  

Maria can remember the very hour they broke the news to her. She had been celebrating at a party following her highly successful introduction into Paris society. She can remember proudly telling the crowd about how, when she retired, her granddaughter would be the next to take Paris – and all of Europe – by storm.

And then the messenger from Russia, pulling her aside with the news. The room swimming immediately after. The murmurs in the crowd when it became clear what had happened in St Petersburg.

She had started for Russia the moment her ears stopped ringing, fuelled by rage and nothing more. She had almost reached the border when she encountered Lily – the countess had gotten wind of the fact that the general’s men were waiting for Maria there and hurried to warn her. With the country on lockdown, the two women had fled back to the safety of France.

Over time, they began to plot, to watch, and to wait, until they finally made it back into St Petersburg – Maria refuses to call it Leningrad – incognito six months ago. Not to reclaim the Palace, no – the place means nothing to Maria now. She will take her revenge, and then she will let it burn to the ground.

The recollections are turning her blood cold, and she starts to rise from her chair, intending to retire to bed.

“There were new fighters today,” Lily blurts out. She’s fidgeting slightly, and Maria sits back down, wary. “One of them was…remarkable.”

“Enough to catch the attention of the old gods?” Maria asks evenly.

“They might be very interested indeed – she fights…a lot like yourself.”

Maria can’t prevent a sharp intake of breath as her stomach churns.

Lily’s voice is hesitant. “Are you sure you want to continue the ruse of searching for Anastasia, Your Majesty? You know there will be people actually trying to find her…trying to be her…to get the reward. Can you take it?”

Maria’s last glimpse of Anastasia swims to the forefront of her mind, but she squashes it down, clenching her jaw. “I know the truth, Lily. There is no Anastasia, not anymore. But I will not let them use my family as a symbol for their victory any longer.” Her chest tightens, but she does not let it show on her face.

Thankfully, Lily does not continue her line of questioning, simply laying one hand on Maria’s. “I understand, Your Majesty. I promised you my support on this, and I will see it through.”

Maria softens her tone. “I know it must be difficult for you to watch me like this. To be nothing like the queen you once knew.”

“None of us are who we once were, Your Majesty,” Lily points out. “You certainly have as much right to change as the rest of us.”

“Maria Feodorovna – no different from anyone else. You may as well refer to me as Comrade Maria now.” Maria laughs bitterly.

“I would never, Your Majesty. Our circumstances may have changed, but you remain queen to me,” Lily replies staunchly.

“Perhaps there will come a time when that will change as well. But thank you, my dear Lily.” Maria offers a small smile – the most generous she affords to be these days. “It is late. We will speak tomorrow.”

Lily bids her good night, and as her bedroom door closes behind her, Maria leans against it, suddenly weighed down.

Though she had been the one to come up with the plan to distract the gods with the possibility that Anastasia was alive while she and Lily infiltrated the Palace under their noses, she often wonders what had possessed her to do so. Is she in fact no better than her enemies to use her dead granddaughter’s name as a symbol in her own retaliation, even if the intention was to avenge Anastasia?

She walks over to her bedside table and picks up the one picture she had managed to save of her family – the only place she can see Anastasia again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to her granddaughter as she extinguishes the lamps.

* * *

 

The following night, Gleb forgoes his usual seat in the top box of the Palace and sits in the front row.

He’s given a wide berth by the crowd, most of whom scatter to the chairs behind. The section buzzes with chatter, even though the people try to keep their voices low. If he were so inclined, he can still pick out every word with clarity. But he has more important things to do tonight.

The lights dim, and Anya and Dmitry enter the arena to cheers. Vlad beams from behind them, flush with the success of his fighters in their first bout. As Anya jumps up onto the apron, she turns and sees Gleb, and her stance falters. He meets her gaze as coldly as he can muster.

Something flashes across her face – disappointment? Disapproval? She turns her back to him swiftly and begins a conversation with Dmitry about strategy. Dmitry peeks over the top of her head – she is practically a head shorter than he – and glimpses Gleb. The brat narrows his eyes and takes another step closer to Anya.

The force of blunt nails against the flesh of both his palms makes Gleb realize that he has clenched his hands into white-knuckled fists. As subtly as he can, he relaxes his hands and crosses his arms over his chest. He nods his head, and the bell is rung.

Anya and Dmitry’s opponents tonight were carefully chosen – they are bigger and more brutal than last night’s. And unfortunately for Anya, they won’t make the same mistake as last time and underestimate her for her gender or her size. They are human monsters, bent only on destruction.

They counter each attack from their smaller opponents with crushing blows, knocking Anya and Dmitry down again and again. When Anya tries to take them out from above, they literally swat her out of the air. She crash-lands hard on the floor, clutching the arm she fell on. Gleb smiles with a grim satisfaction. Perhaps now she knows what a real fight is like, and she will leave without him even saying a word to her.

Vlad tries to rush to her side to check on her, but a beefy arm stops him in his tracks. He’s an adequate distraction, however, and Dmitry is able to knock one half of the monster team off his feet with a dive. The other half, who was advancing on Anya, stops briefly, and it’s enough time for her to recover. Her eyes blaze, and for a second, she glows like fire. Gleb almost stands in fascination.

She goes low, and attacks her opponent’s knee from behind. He goes down, and from there, it’s like she’s operating on a new gear. She and the brat quickly figure out the behemoths’ weakness – they don’t think too much and they don’t learn very quickly from their mistakes. Between their quick wit and movements, it’s not long before Anya and Dmitry are suddenly in control. Anya takes to the top rope one more time, taking one of the monster men with her. And she jumps off.

It is as though someone struck a match. Her body crackles with flame as she turns and twists in midair. The intensity nearly burns Gleb where he sits, and he dimly hears his chair clattering to the floor as he leaps to his feet.

Anyone who has ever watched Maria Feodorovna fight in her peak knows that move. It was the queen’s trump card, the one she relied on to always win. It has become almost a calling card for a Romanov. Gleb feels the dread coil in his stomach. He needs to get Anya away from the Palace.

It seems an eternity before she lands, her opponent’s face driven to the mat. Three seconds later, it’s over, and the newcomers have pulled off yet another victory. As they make their exit, Gleb very nearly sprints after them before he catches himself and remembers that there’s an entire night of fights left to get through.

After the last bout ends, Gleb barrels past fighters to get to the back. She is nowhere there, and he hurries to the door of the Palace. He can stand outside until tomorrow morning if he has to – he can’t let Death find Anya first.

As he steps out into the cold night, he finds that she is still there, and miraculously alone. She’s leaning against the wall, and the moment their eyes meet, she stiffens. He can feel her fear as she takes a defensive stance.

This second meeting is nothing like their first.

But Gleb has no time to reassure her, to wait for her to calm. He has to act while his mistress is out of earshot.

“I know what you’re trying to do.” He glances around them. “For your sake, stop playing this game.”

Her expression is smooth, and her tone cool in reply. “I grew up around stories of the old legends. It’s an innocent enough tribute.”

“No, it is not. Not these legends. Not the Romanovs. Not… _Anastasia_.” He lets the steel seep into his voice. “If you carry on like this, Death will come for you. Without mercy.”

The threat hangs in the air, and while she can’t suppress a flinch, she doesn’t back down. Very few people will do that to him – there’s few who can, and live to tell the tale. It seems he will have try harder to make sure she understands.

He steps closer. “I was there when my father, General Vaganov, saw to it that the Romanov family was ended for good,” Gleb says in a low voice. “My first true glimpse of them came when he brought them to the warehouse…Have you ever heard the sound of bodies breaking, Anya? Of screams fading into silence?”

She steps back, shaking her head. “I don’t need to hear this.” Her voice trembles.

“That is the fate of anyone who attempts to claim to be Anastasia. Be very careful who you evoke,” he finishes simply.

She shudders involuntarily, and he grasps her forearm, looking her in the eye to drive his point home. The flames rush through his veins, and he has to stop himself from gasping at the sensation.

“Anya?” A familiar, arrogant male voice cuts through Gleb’s haze and causing him to let go.

Dmitry comes up to them, his eyes narrowed at Gleb. Gleb glares back, even more irritated at the sight of the young fighter than he usually is.

“There a problem?” Dmitry inquires. He’s smiling mockingly.

“Everything’s fine, Dima,” Anya responds quickly as she rubs at her forearm. Perhaps she can see the venom in Gleb’s eyes. “Let’s go, Vlad’s waiting.”

Dmitry doesn’t move until Anya physically drags him away, leaving Gleb standing alone in the dark and the cold.

Gleb has the match made immediately the following day. It’s a rare, gutsy move – he doesn’t even ask his mistress if she will approve.

“What’s this?” Death drawls as she glances over the match card. “I don’t remember choosing this opponent for you.”

“He irritates me,” Gleb responds stonily. It certainly is the truth.

She clucks her tongue. “A shame. He has potential. And he entertains me.” She traces Dmitry’s name with the sharp tip of a nail. “But I am impressed that you’re finally showing some initiative.” She hands him the card. “Do as you please.”

He hears the wary murmurs in the crowd when the match is announced. The Man of a Thousand Deaths has never bothered with small-fry newcomers, especially those who are working in teams. Maybe he’s getting bored, they whisper. It does not bode well.

When Dmitry comes out for the bout, Anya and Vlad are with him. Their faces are creased with anxiety, a contrast to Dmitry’s confidence and swagger. If the brat is scared, Gleb has to admit he’s doing a good job of not showing it.

He is also talented, and his high-flying skills keep him out of Gleb’s clutches in the opening stretches. He even manages to land a flurry of rapid-fire strikes at one point, very nearly taking Gleb off his feet.

Unfortunately, he’s still just a man facing Death’s handpicked fighter. Gleb recovers quickly, and catches Dmitry as he makes a leap off the top turnbuckle. Gleb smashes the brat’s body into the mat with a slam, stunning him, and one Flatliner later, Dmitry is finished.

Everyone knows that those who lose to Gleb are his to claim. But Anya immediately steps into the ring, pulling Dmitry’s semiconscious carcass out of his way.

The crowd goes completely silent.

Vlad has gone pale, but his evident concern for his client wins out and he hurriedly yanks Dmitry off the apron, supporting him. The whole time, Anya stays in the ring, glaring down Gleb as if daring him to go through her if he wants his prize.

He glares back, and for a moment the world around him vanishes.

There is an audible gasp when he takes a step back. It lingers when she backs out, helping to hold up Dmitry on Vlad’s other side, and Gleb merely lets them.

She needs the brat.

Her eyes soften, the gratitude unspoken but implicit. It’s a small reward, and he plays the memory over and over in his head.

At the end of the night, he screams as a life is taken from him.


	5. Chapter 5

_“Dima! Time to come inside – it’s getting dark!”_

_Dmitry looks up and sees his father standing in the doorway of the Yusupov estate._

_“No it’s not,” he shoots back with a grin, even though the sky is nearly black._

_“Dima,” his father sighs. The mask he wears to fight dangles from one hand. “Go and wash up. I have to go in a while.”_

_“I want to come,” Dmitry chirps eagerly. “I want to watch!”_

_As he reaches out to grab his father’s mask, it falls to the ground, blood pouring from the openings._

* * *

 

Dmitry shoots upright, gasping. Vlad glances up, and relief suffuses his features. “You’re awake.”

A chill runs through Dmitry as he takes in his surroundings. “I’m awake,” he repeats, more to himself than to Vlad.

“Anya went out to get more medicine,” Vlad continues. Dmitry holds up his hand to stop him from carrying on – Vlad is talking faster than Dmitry is used to, and it makes his head hurt a little.

There’s a moment of silence, then Vlad sits back, exhaling loudly. “I warned you,” he says, more evenly and quietly.

Dmitry doesn’t meet his gaze. “Look, it wasn’t a rout – I had him a few times –”

“You had him a few times,” Vlad scoffs. “I told you you weren’t ready – I knew you would underestimate him –”

“Look, I wasn’t going to bail on the fight,” Dmitry argues. “I was as ready as I could ever be!”

“You almost died in front of me!” Vlad snaps. “If it weren’t for Anya, you would be!”

Dmitry stops, derailed. Vlad has never raised his voice that way, not even in training.

“You have no idea what you looked like then.” Vlad rubs his temples. “You were practically a corpse when he was done with you!”

His distress is coming off him in waves. Dmitry hesitates briefly, then tries to extend a hand to his mentor's shoulder. But the movement stretches some unseen injury, and he winces, his arm falling.

“Didn’t mean to worry you,” he mumbles instead.

It makes him uncomfortable to be reminded that somebody cares about him. Since his father’s disappearance in the Palace fourteen years ago, Dmitry has thought of himself as the ultimate survivor, with nothing to rely on but the streets since he was ten. He has had no time to learn to fear Death – his energies have always been consumed with getting by – with food, with money.

With making sure someone paid for the crime done to his father.

He and Vlad have always had a partnership of convenience – Dmitry plots, and Vlad makes it happen. It has, Dmitry thought, just been Vlad’s way of repaying him for saving his life all those years ago. Once the debt is paid, once there are greener pastures, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Vlad up and left.

Because of Dmitry, Vlad may have run afoul of Death’s agent. Yet here he is. Dmitry doesn't know what to think.

In the distance, the front door closes, drawing their attention, and they hear Anya’s familiar footsteps.

Vlad rises to meet her, then looks back down at Dmitry. “I’ve made many stupid choices in my lifetime. You’re not one of them, Dmitry," he admits. "Don’t make me regret it.”

He moves to exit the room, to leave Dmitry alone.

“Thanks, Vlad,” Dmitry blurts out. “For…getting me out of there.”

For making him feel like…like he's someone’s son again for the first time in over a decade.

Vlad turns and smiles tiredly before he walks away. Dmitry falls back against the lentil sack he’s lying on, listening to the voices in the next room as he tries to piece together the events of however long ago. He realizes he never asked Vlad how long he’s been out.

Dmitry can’t remember much after his fight against Gleb Vaganov started going downhill. He’d tried to stay out of Gleb’s reach throughout the bout, but he was caught at some point, and the rest is a blur. The aches in his back and the back of his head tell him he got hit very, very hard, and if the fights he and Vlad have observed were any indication… Dmitry shudders involuntarily. The room seems to go dark for the briefest of moments, and almond-shaped orbs of black flash before his eyes. His insides turn to ice, and Dmitry blinks rapidly to clear away the eerie vision.

“Dima?” Anya is in the doorway, holding a chipped bowl. She looks concerned.

Almost immediately, the feeling returns to Dmitry’s bones as though someone had struck up a fire, and he manages to sit up again. “Yeah.”

She cuffs him lightly in the back of the head with one hand, making him yelp. “That’s for putting Vlad through this.”

She pushes the bowl into his hands as he hisses in pain. “I snuck this from the hospital. Drink it – it’ll help you heal faster.”

“You? Steal?” He smirks as he shuts his eyes to let the throbbing of his head die down. “And I thought you had your little high-and-mighty stand against sneaky little rats like me.”

She rolled her eyes. “As if you don’t know I’m as poor as you are. I _have_ stolen out of necessity.” She gestures to the medicine. “I didn’t exactly have time to work for enough money to get this.”

“In the end, you’re human after all,” he quips.

She shrugs. “Hunger and the fear of death make us all the same in the end.”

Without meaning to, Dmitry’s hand grows cold and trembles. He tightens his grip on the bowl, trying to master himself.

“Vlad said it was because of you that... _he_ spared me,” he ventures. Anya’s face clouds over, and she turns away.

“What happened?” he presses.

She hesitates. “He’d beaten you. I got in there before he could do worse.”

“He let you walk away with me.” Dmitry knows that never happens with Gleb. He would have just claimed her as another victim. But with Anya, Gleb seems….different.

It makes Dmitry’s insides burn with anger. 

“I don’t know why,” she responds, still not meeting his eyes. “I wasn’t about to ask.”

He finally decides to let it go. “Well…thanks,” he says. “You saved my life.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she chastises him. But she smiles, and everything seems to hurt a little less.

Oh no.

He tries to steer them back onto a normal line of conversation, to ignore that anything has changed. “So, how’d I do? Showed you some tricks, didn’t I?”

Anya snorted. “Tricks. You showed me how to jump directly into a powerslam, that’s what you showed me.”

Dmitry places a hand over his heart, feeling its rapid thrum under his fingers. “I’m _hurt,_ Your Highness,” he comments with mock distress, laying it on a bit thicker than he usually does. “I thought royalty would have been taught to be more gracious than that.”

“Why are you doing this?” she suddenly asks. “Why did you want to bring Anastasia back? You don’t like the royals any more than the new regime does, so what’s in it for you?”

Her tone is serious, and his joking mood dies. Dmitry stares into his bowl of medicine, the pounding of his head intensifying.

Telling her the truth is not an option, not for the plan to succeed…though Dmitry has honestly almost forgotten why she’s really here in the first place. They’ve been through a lot in the past few months, and he doesn’t want her to feel like she’s nothing but a product he’s selling. Because she isn’t that. She’s his…partner now.

“I don’t like the way that skullhead in the Palace runs things. He cares even less than the royalty did,” he finds himself saying. “I want to bring her back so it’ll bring him down.” There, that was at least partially true.

“You think Anastasia can beat him?” she asks skeptically.

He remembers the night he first saw her, and all the months since run through in his mind, to the woman in front of him now. Anya is the same…and yet she has become so much more.

He looks her in the eye. “I think she – I believe _you_ – could. I can’t think of anyone who could be stronger.”

“Then what happens after Anastasia wins?” she replies softly.

There’s a long beat, and neither of them move. Then Vlad calls for Anya, shattering the moment.

She clears her throat and stands. “You should drink the rest of that. I’ll be outside if you need anything.” Before he can even respond, she’s out the door.

Dmitry leans back again, squeezing his eyes shut against the expansion of his chest. Maybe this is what near-death does to people. He feels both impossibly alive and ready to die all at once.

He is a charmer and a rogue, and he knows it. It’s how he’s gotten his way on the streets for so long – he knows the right words, the right buttons to push to get attention, and they fall for it every time. Anya is different. She’s the first to feel equal to him, he realizes. The first to feel like a true match for him.

And now, he no longer knows how to answer her final question.

* * *

 

“I’ll only be a few hours,” Vlad assures Anya as he dons his coat. “Make sure he gets some sleep.”

She nods. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

The door clicks shut behind him as he makes his way down the street in pursuit of their evening meal. Dmitry being sidelined has reminded Vlad of how much he’s relied on his students for his needs, and he needs to show them that he too can keep them alive. Vlad may not have Dmitry’s skills of theft or Anya’s deceptive innocence, but what he does have are contacts. Contacts who, hopefully, have food to spare.

As he passes through the square, a small figure bumps into him. Vlad feels as though he has been plunged into an ice bath, and he barely hears a mumbled apology before the figure melts into the blackness of the nearby alleyway. Shivering, he wraps his coat more tightly around his person and turns to continue on his way, but an unexpected crinkle in the pocket of his coat gives him pause. Slowly, he reaches in and pulls out a black envelope.

Vlad sucks in his breath. War.

He’s so preoccupied, he doesn’t even notice where he’s going until another body hits him.

“Watch it!” comes an irritated female voice, this time crystal clear. Vlad glances up as he comes back to himself, and sucks in another breath.

“Lily?”

Her scowl falters as she looks him full in the face. “Vladimir Popov.”

“I thought you were in France,” he whispers in shock.

“I was,” responds his paramour (does it still count after a decade of no communication?) coolly, clearly back in command of herself. “And I thought _you_ were dead.”

“I have my ways, as you well know,” he purrs, tucking the envelope back into his pocket and smoothing his hair, his most charming smile on his face. But he barely has time to react before there’s a forearm coming straight at his face.

“‘Your ways’ got me into a scandal,” she hisses as Vlad clutches his nose. She turns to leave, but Vlad rests a hand on her arm before she can.

“A scandal you hardly tried to avoid,” he reminds her with a grin. She tries to drive the point of her elbow against his ribs, and this time he’s ready for it, blocking her arm with his own.

They fall into the pattern of a familiar dance, going back and forth with their strikes. Lily evidently hasn’t allowed the exile to dull her abilities. He’s only just keeping up, and he’s silently thankful that training Dmitry and Anya has kept him on his toes just enough.

“Still so deadly,” he comments admiringly. “Just like when we first met.”

Lily has a fierce smile on her face now, making her even lovelier than she’s ever been. “I’ll admit, you haven’t missed a step yourself. Maybe you’ll actually beat me for once instead of stealing a victory.”

He gets in close, catching her arm in a lock. “I’ve never stolen a win you never wanted me to have.”

She smiles up at him. “We got away with it for the longest time, didn’t we?”

Emboldened, Vlad leans down to kiss her. In a split second, she has reversed the hold and hit him with a kick that sends him to the ground. As he tries to stand up, she’s on his back, hyperextending his arm as the rest of her limbs curl around him in an octopus hold.

“I loved you,” she breathes into his ear.

Vlad taps his surrender rapidly, not willing to strain his muscles further. He’ll live to fight another day. She wrenches a little harder on his limb, keeping the hold for a few more seconds before finally releasing him.

He falls to the ground, gasping as he massages feeling back into his right arm. “You loved me.”

Lily rolls her eyes. “I’m amazed you’re still alive.”

“One adapts to the times, my dear.” His nerves working again, Vlad moves to rest his hands on her shoulders.

She deftly moves away. “I see. And who is the unlucky victim of your schemes this time?”

“I would never call them unlucky,” he protests. “I’ve managed them all the way into the Palace. Two of the best that place has today.”

Her mouth tightens. “ _Them_?”

“A pair of youngsters from the streets.” Vlad glances around. “I’d tell you more, but I would be no gentleman if I didn’t get you a drink.” He blinks slowly twice, a code he and Lily used in the past to convey urgent secrecy.

She remembers, and he sees her looking to the shadow of the Palace hanging above the square out of the corner of her eye. “And I wouldn’t be a lady if I turned it down.”

She follows his lead until they’re well out of sight of the building, and Vlad decides it’s safe.

“Well?” Lily demands.

“You’ve stayed in contact with Maria Feodorovna?” he asks in a low voice.

She purses her lips, seemingly weighing her response. “Yes,” she finally says warily.

He takes a dramatic pause. “I think I’ve found her, Lily. I’ve found Anastasia,” he declares triumphantly.

She lets out a loud groan. “ _Of course._ I should have known you would get yourself mixed up in this one.”

“I’ve never seen anyone who fits the description as well as she does,” he insists.

Lily shakes her head. “And you just happened to find this girl after the queen offered a reward. You’ve done a lot of trickery in your time, but don’t do this to her, Vlad.”

Vlad’s stomach twinges with guilt. But he also owes it to himself and to Dmitry. And to Anya.

“Come watch her fight,” he pleads Lily. “I can get you in as my guest. They'll never know what you are.”

“Vlad –”

“She stopped Gleb Vaganov in his tracks last night,” he announces. Lily inhales sharply.

“If anyone can sense the return of the Phoenix, it would be him,” he finishes. "And if his reactions tell me anything..." He trails off, cocking his head.

“And she lives?” Lily ventures.

Vlad nods slowly. He doesn’t understand why Vaganov did nothing to Anya, but all that matters is that she got him to back down. That ought to be a feather in anyone’s cap.

It ought to get the Romanov matriarch’s attention.

He waits, lets Lily absorb the information, and then takes her hand. “One chance. Give her one chance. See for yourself if she’s worthy of meeting the queen.”

Lily bites her lip. “How many guests can you get in?”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic, for me, is the ultimate crossover of two things I really like at present - Glenya and the lucha libre TV show Lucha Underground (on Netflix!). I suppose the clash of worlds was inevitable, cos if there's anything else I write fanfic about, it's pro wrestling.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and hope you hang in there with me!


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